


Songbird

by Waffilicious



Category: BioShock, BioShock Infinite
Genre: Bioshock Infinite: Burial at Sea, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 18:55:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1658891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waffilicious/pseuds/Waffilicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Elizabeth arrives in Rapture to find Zachary Comstock in the pursuit of justice, she's drawn deeper into the city than she intends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Elizabeth stared at the depths of the ocean in front of her, the water held back only by the thick pane of glass, nearly invisible, that made the wall of the office she had stepped into. The Luteces, infuriating busybodies that they were, stood nearby, watching her.

“I wonder why she’s staring so.”

“Nostalgia, perhaps?”

“Awe, I should think.”

“She’s seen it before.”

“Didn’t have time to admire it then, however.”

“I suppose.”

“The last time I was here, it was to kill Songbird,” she said, knowing very well they knew that.

“Nostalgia, then.”

“If you want to call it that,” she sighed. “It’s not a fond memory.”

“Nor was it so long ago as all that.”

“No.” Elizabeth put a hand on the glass. It was cold, and her hand left an airy imprint. “Why here?” She asked.

“Why indeed?”

Elizabeth turned on the twins with a glare. “Don’t give me that,” she snapped. “Comstock asked you for a place to hide, and you chose here.  Why? ”

The twins glanced at each other. Robert raised his eyebrows and Rosalind answered.

“He wanted a place as far from Columbia as possible.”

“It seemed… fitting,” Robert finished.

Elizabeth frowned and turned back to the ocean. “From above the clouds to below the waves… yes, I suppose it is fitting.”

“Poetic, even.”

“I never did like poetry.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“And you do?”

“On occasion.”

“Typical.”

Elizabeth ignored their conversation as she stared out at the city. It seemed bigger than she remembered, but then she hadn’t really been paying attention the first time around.

“How am I supposed to find him in all this?” she asked, interrupting whatever inane argument they were having.

“Be clever, I should think,” Robert answered.

“You are quite clever, or were when last I checked,” Rosalind continued.

“And you do have quite the resources at your disposal.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t want to rely on them. It’s too… easy. To get lost. I’m afraid…” she hesitated. “I’m afraid one day I’ll lose myself forever.”

For once, the Luteces did not reply. 

After a long moment of silence, Elizabeth took a breath. “Where would a man like Booker DeWitt be found?”

The twins looked at each other once again before replying.

“No matter how far a man runs,” Rosalind began.

“Or to what depths he goes,” Robert supplied.

“He will always return to his vices.”

Elizabeth’s mouth set in a firm line. “The wherever there’s gambling and alcohol, that’s where I’ll find Booker DeWitt.”

“The hound of the dens of iniquity.”

“Dens of iniquity?”

“I thought it appropriately dramatic.”

“If you say so.”

Elizabeth ignored them again, instead squaring her shoulders and taking a deep breath. “Time to find the den of iniquity, then.”


	2. Fort Frolic

Fort Frolic, at this time of night, was bright, loud, and incredibly full of people. The magic of the Fort brought people from all walks of life together--rich or poor, the Fort was where you went if you wanted to have a good time.

It was overwhelming. Elizabeth had to close her eyes for a moment to get her bearings, focus on _this_ reality and this reality _only_. One moment’s loss of concentration in a place like this and she’d--well, she wasn’t sure what would happen, but she _was_ certain it wouldn’t be pretty. Elizabeth took several deep breaths and deliberately turned her attention away from the doors, their presence nearly tangible in her mind’s eye. She ignored their siren call in favor of focusing on _this_ here and _this_ now.

She opened her eyes. The place gleamed, spotless, but the laughter and music and posters and conversations spoke of something lurking beneath the beautiful surface. Despite the immaculate sparkle, Elizabeth felt dirty.

Things were not right in Rapture, and Fort Frolic was where the people came to forget it. The doors in her mind whispered of things to come.

_Focus, Elizabeth. Booker DeWitt._

The man was no saint, but of his many vices, two were chief: drink and gambling. So where would a man like that go? Elizabeth looked around and began to walk. It hardly seemed like the kind of district Booker would frequent, but this wasn’t exactly Booker, and Fort Frolic wasn’t as polished as it liked to pretend to be. And besides, Zachary Comstock pretending to be Booker may not have sunk quite so low as to rack up excessive debt. Not yet, anyway.

Contemplating the sheer size of the Fort, Elizabeth was tempted to look through the doors to find Booker, but she resisted that particular temptation. There were too many doors, and she could get lost so easily searching through every possible reality. So Elizabeth instead explored the Fort.

There were art galleries, bars, dance halls, restaurants, music stores, concert halls, shops for every kind of sin you could think of. And gambling dens. Oh yes, there were gambling dens. Elizabeth visited every one she came to, walking slowly through the tables and slot machines looking for one face among the many. She ignored every come-on and wolf whistle she heard from the few folks who weren’t so focused on their games or drinks that they actually noticed her passing.

But it wasn’t until she reached a place called Sir Prize that she found him.

Elizabeth found herself staring. Intellectually, she knew that Booker DeWitt and Zachary Comstock were the same man, but she hadn’t ever really seen the resemblance between the two until now, they were such different men. But here sat a Comstock without his trademark beard, and Elizabeth suddenly saw how the two men truly were one and the same.

And then she heard the plaintive voice of a little girl and her blood ran cold.

There was a _child_ with him. He had brought a _little girl_ into a gambling den. There she sat on the floor, playing with a doll by the man’s feet as he played his game, smoked his cigarettes, and drank to drown his soul.

Elizabeth moved to a less conspicuous place to watch as her mind raced. Was he trying to start again? Erase his guilt by taking care of some poor child who deserved far better than an absent-minded gambling alcoholic? Elizabeth felt rage burning through her. First he tried to kidnap one child and destroyed two lives in the process, and now he attempts the very same thing again? Did he think hiding under the waves would change anything?

“Miss? Are you all right?”

Elizabeth turned to find a waiter staring at her, and she realized she had a white-knuckled grip on a slot machine. She pulled her hands away and took a breath, smiling at the man.

_His name was Wallace, and he had come from the surface to the promise of Rapture’s freedom from censure, hoping that he’d at last find a place where he could write  in peace, but the Fort proved a distraction too great, and he had lost himself in its pleasures. Now he worked as a waiter here, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret his decisions, even as ADAM twisted his genetics and pushed him on a slow path to self-destruction. When Rapture falls he will still be here in this place, his broken mind clinging to familiarity._

_Shit._

She had slipped focus, and now Wallace’s life stories were unfolding in front of her eyes. She took a breath and dug her nails into the palms of her hands. It helped to clear her head, focus on the one man standing in front of her and not his many other lives, scattered across the myriad realities.

“I’m fine,” she said with a smile. “I’m sorry, I just need a cigarette. You wouldn’t happen to have one one you, would you? I’m out.”

The waiter, _Wallace Harold Perkins, called Wally in most realities_ , relaxed and nodded. “I can sell you a pack for five dollars.”

Elizabeth pouted. “I only want one.”

Wally shifted, his eyes on her lips and then her breasts before sliding back up to her eyes again. He took the bait, and Elizabeth felt a strange sense of both satisfaction and disgust as he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket.

“Well… don’t tell anyone.” He offered it to her and she took it as he snapped his fingers to light it for her. She stared at the casual display of splicing, but smiled and took the offer, leaning forward to light the cigarette on his smoldering fingers. She took a deep breath and let the smoke fill her lungs. The acrid taste kept her focus on the present, and though she had never made a habit of smoking before, Elizabeth decided right then and there that maybe she should. First, though, she’d have to get some money so she could keep up a habit like that. That, or start getting used to manipulating men into giving them to her.

She exhaled a long plume of smoke into Wallace’s face, considering him.

“Thanks,” she said with a smile. “I needed that.”

He nodded back, turning on the charm with his own smile. “I could tell. You seemed pretty on edge.”

“Yes, well… running into old exes is never fun.” The lie was built from what she had seen in Wallace’s life. When Wallace grimaced in sympathy, she knew she had struck true.

“I hear you.” He glanced over at Booker and back to Elizabeth. “Is that him?”

Elizabeth nodded. “Yes. Does he come in here a lot?”

Wallace laughed. “Nearly every night. Mister DeWitt’s a regular ‘round here, has been for a few months now, though he’s only been bringing the kid with him for a couple weeks.”

“How often does he come in?”

“Varies. At first it was once every couple of weeks, then it was once a week, then every couple of days, then every other day, then every single day. Seems like whenever he got the kid he started coming in less, but that didn’t last long. He’s been in every day this week.”

Elizabeth nodded, her gaze traveling back to the man at the table and the little girl with him. “How does he treat the girl?”

Wally shrugged. “At first? Like baggage. But he seems to’ve warmed up to her some.”

Elizabeth thought about this for a moment, then smiled at Wallace. “You have an observant eye.”

Wally smiled at the compliment. “I’m a writer. I like to pay attention to people. For research.”

“Research, hm?” Elizabeth smiled.

“That’s right.”

“What do you write?”  
“Whatever I want.”

Elizabeth was fully aware that the conversation had dissolved into flirting, but she wasn’t entirely opposed to it. It was becoming increasingly clear that if she was going to do this properly, she’d have to spend some time in Rapture. And to do that she’d have to find a source of income and a place to stay. Since she was astonishingly broke, she had to take opportunities as they came and, well, she could do far worse than Wallace Harold Perkins.

“Are you doing research right now?” She asked, a breath of smoke obscuring his features for half a second.

“Maybe. I’d do better if I had your name, though.” His smile was positively charming. Not so very long ago, Elizabeth may very well have fallen for it.

But not anymore. She knew too much. Of course, that didn’t mean she wouldn’t let things continue. It just meant she was the one in control.

“Elizabeth,” she said with a smile. “My name’s Elizabeth. And you are…?” She knew already, but _he_ didn’t know that.

“Wallace Perkins. Call me Wally.”

Elizabeth extended her hand, but instead of shaking it, Wally bent over and kissed it gently.

“Are you generally allowed to be a shameless flirt on the job, Mister Perkins?”

“I told you, call me Wally, please.”

“Wally, then. But my question stands.”

“Well, my answer would have to be that it’s not exactly _encouraged_ , but there’s no rules against it.”

“Oh there aren’t, are there?”

“No, Elizabeth.” He smiled. “That’s a lovely name. Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth smiled. This was much easier than she thought it would be. “Thank you.”

“So what brings you to Sir Prize, Elizabeth? I haven’t seen you here before.”

“Oh, I’m just exploring Fort Frolic, honestly. My apartment has… developed a leak, and I’ve found myself spending as much time away from it as possible.” The lie fell from her lips as easily as if it were the truth.

“A leak, huh? That’s pretty serious.”

Elizabeth hummed in agreement and nodded. “And since I quit my job, I haven’t had the money to get it fixed.”

"That is _very_ serious.” He considered her for a moment, and she looked right back. “You know,” he continued, “I might have some space in my apartment.”

Elizabeth smiled.

 

Wally’s apartment was about as small as Elizabeth expected it to be, but he was a decent cook and made her a late dinner, served with the worst wine she’d ever tasted. But it was alcoholic, and Elizabeth thought she might need it. As it turned out, Wally wasn’t a bad fuck either. She even enjoyed herself. And Wally was kind enough. When she woke late the next morning, he had breakfast ready for her, and seemed eager to please.

It occurred to Elizabeth belatedly exactly what she’d done and what it implied. She wondered what that made _her_ \--then realized abruptly that she didn’t care. She was here for Comstock. Whatever she had to do to get justice-- _whatever_ it may be, it was worth it.

It was worth it, she reminded herself when Wally took her back to Sir Prize and casually mentioned that the owner was looking for more waitstaff. It was worth it, she told herself when she took the job and started spending her time split between Sir Prize, watching Booker’s every move there and following the man when possible, and being Wally’s bedwarmer. It wasn’t _horrible_ , she was actually making decent money and Wally really was sweet, even if shadows of an ADAM addiction were starting to show and he was starting to spend more time out at parties, spending all his money on his next fix.

Elizabeth didn’t particularly care what happened to him, but she put on as much concern as she thought was appropriate even as her concentration was on tracking Booker’s activities.

She soon realized that she wasn’t the only one following him. More often as the days went by she saw men--one or two, never more than that--tracking Booker’s movements and watching him like hawks. Or rather, watching the girl like hawks. They seemed only interested in when Booker’s attention was turned from her, and at Sir Prize, he hardly paid her any attention at all.

Elizabeth wondered if she should do something. Warn someone or step in. It wasn’t the girl’s fault her guardian was a terrible father. But the more she considered it, the more she wanted to see how things would play out.

She didn’t have to wait long. One night, about two weeks after she first noticed Booker’s shadows, they struck.

The men had been slowly gathering all night. Elizabeth recognized them--some of them were frequent stalkers, and the others she recognized because of how they interacted with each other and took careful, sidelong glances at Booker and the girl. There were five of them in all, spread out through the room where Booker played poker.

It was a bad night for him, and he was drinking heavily. The girl played by his feet as she usually did, and it wasn’t until around two in the morning, when Booker was low in winnings and high on his bar tab that the men finally made their move.

The girl was asleep, her doll resting in the crook of her arm, and Booker was almost too drunk to play poker, but he was managing to lose spectacularly anyway.

The plan as deployed seemed fairly simple. The men rose and surrounded Booker, who had just enough awareness left to look up and mutter, “do sumthin’ for you, gennlemen?”

One of the men started on something about Booker owing them money--a likely story, and in Booker’s current state, one he couldn’t adequately refute. Still, stubborn as ever, Booker turned to the man addressing him and began a slurred rebuttal that was only barely comprehensible. As he did, one of the men he had turned his back on bent down and easily scooped up the sleeping girl, but with a roughness that woke her. When she sleepily realized that the man holding her was a stranger, she cried out and began to struggle.

Booker’s head turned and he stumbled to his feet. “Sally!” he managed to shout, but the men were already on their way, and though Booker tried to make chase, there was no chance he could catch up. Sally struggled harder, but the man carrying her was strong, and she succeeded only in crying and dropping her doll, which broke on the ground.

Elizabeth watched as Booker fell to the ground, crawled to the doll and clutched it, nearly in tears as he shouted Sally’s name. But Elizabeth could find no pity in her heart.

This should be enough, she told herself. Comstock’s life had come full circle, and now a child had been taken from him in nearly the same way as he had tried to take Anna. But she remembered the agony and fear of Anna’s death and, judging by Booker’s current state of drunkenness, he wouldn’t remember a thing. It wasn’t enough.

And besides, her curiosity began to get the better of her. Who were these men who would abduct a child? Why did they want Sally? It was disturbing, to say the least. If men would go so far as to stalk Booker until there was an opportune time to steal a child--Elizabeth needed to know what happened to the girl. The fact that the doors in the back of her mind urged her on only served to motivate her purpose.

Constants and variables. How much of her coming to Rapture was choice, and how much was fate?

That was a philosophical argument she’d have to have with herself later. Right now she had kidnappers to track.

Slipping out of Sir Prize into the night, it wasn’t difficult to find the direction the kidnappers took at first. The crowds were thinning at this time of night, either going home to pass out or ramping up into their chosen parties. Not many were milling about in the grand hallways and staircases of the Fort. The cries of a small girl were easy to follow--right up until they went silent.

Elizabeth found herself staring at a dead end, an abandoned corner littered with used syringes and cigarette butts and empty bottles. A torn poster of Sander Cohen’s previous musical triumph, months old, covered the wall.

There was obviously more here that Elizabeth wasn’t seeing--not with her eyes, anyway. She took a deep breath and let her focus on the present lapse until she saw--like many thin papers laid over each other, their illustrations blending in the light--the past, present, and future of this corner.

_There was a door here. Behind the poster. It had been used before, and would be used again, always for the same reason. Men carrying small girls, smuggling them through a door illustrated with the smiling face of Sander Cohen, Lord of the Fort. She could open it now, and follow them. She could see the switch. But all futures where she made that choice ended with her dead._

Elizabeth took a deep, shuddering breath and forced herself back into the present, this present and no other. She was leaning against the poster, her fingernails digging into it.

Sander Cohen, artist, musician, man of talent, sophistication, and high society stared back at her.

Maybe it was time to get to know the man a little bit.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the references in Burial at Sea to Elizabeth's time as a disciple of Cohen, this is my attempt to explore what happened during those months Elizabeth was in Rapture before the events of Burial at Sea. Updates may be erratic, and for that I apologize in advance.


End file.
